Five Flutes and a Black Rose
by Someday Sara
Summary: Sara Watson and Sherlock Holmes return, again! In the sequel to "Hypnosis", Holmes and Watson are granted a place in the Youth Orchestra... only to discover a deadly secret...
1. Chapter One

Author's Note: Hi, hello, hola, bonjoir, jambo, and all that good stuff! Thanks for choosing to read my newest story, "Five Flutes and a Black Rose". But this story is the third in a series about Sara Watson, an American recently moved to London, and Sherlock Holmes as a teenager. The first story is called "The Seven Princesses," the second one is called "Hypnosis". You might want to read those two first, but otherwise, enjoy and you can look up the references later. (if you want to, of course)  
  
Also, a quick note to Piano Ann - this is pay back for that Mr. A allusion... you'll see what I mean... bwahahahaha.....  
  
Ahem. Right, well, enough of me blabbing. Here we go:  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"ShptcackleWatson?"  
  
"What?" I whispered into my walkie talkie, as softly as I could.  
  
"Suspect approaching your location. Got a visual yet?"  
  
"No," I whispered, again, peering into the fog. "What about the police? They didn't care about your tip?"  
  
"Not enough information. Myron, the stiff head -"  
  
"Shut up! Shut up!" I whispered furiously. I heard footsteps approaching and I clipped the walkie into my belt. Flipping my notebook open, I tried not to even breathe.  
  
Okay, roughly five foot seven, brown hair, eye color? indistinguishable. Wearing blue jeans, a London Rugby Club jacket with the name "Skipper" on the front. Black sneakers. I scribbled furiously. And, I peered closer as he entered the streetlight, a small red scar over his left eye.   
Bingo.  
  
I waited, breathless, until the suspect was gone. "Okay, Holmes," I whispered. "We're good, he's gone. Meet you at the corner of Baker Street."  
  
"Roger."  
  
I slipped from the shadows of the building, hustling down the cool January night. A few last minute snowflakes drifted down and wound up in my golden hair. I grinned as I noticed Holmes and Rascal in the distance, and blew on my bare hands.   
  
When I reached them I bent down and scratched Rascal's, our puppy's, ears. He snuffled and then I turned to Holmes, brandishing the notebook triumphantly. He grinned, tore out the page, and clapped my shoulder.  
  
"We've got him this time," Holmes said, softly. "I'll send this along as an "anonymous" tip. Really, Myron would rather take the word of a stranger than mine."  
  
I yawned. "One less drug dealer, I guess." I glanced at my watch. "Oh, my gosh. It's midnight and tomorrow, no, now today is a school day!"  
  
"But today's Friday," Holmes said, digging in his pocket. "Friday, January 11th. Happy fifteenth birthday, Watson." He handed me a small, flat package wrapped in silver.   
  
Puzzled, I turned the package over in my hands and began unwrapping it. It was a silver picture frame, and inside the frame was a black and white photograph. I recognized it from a month ago - my mother had snapped it when we weren't looking. It showed Holmes and me sitting, reading, back to back in front of our fireplace. Rascal was curled at our feet, and I was smiling softly.  
  
"Holmes, this is beautiful," I whispered. "Thank you."  
  
"Happy Birthday, Sara." He said, and I turned. It was one of the few times I had ever heard him call me by my first name.  
  
Then I shivered. "Let's get home." We started walking back to our houses, in silence. When we got to our block Holmes veered off and I waved goodbye.   
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
Eight hours later the two of us, ashen faced and yawning, were waiting for the bus. "Happy Birthday to me..." I muttered. "Happy Birthday to me..."  
  
"Fifteen now, eh?" Holmes chuckled. "Quite the young lady." I grinned and flipped my hair over my shoulder.  
  
When the bus pulled up, Marianne called and waved to Holmes. Holmes looked at me. Then at her. Then at me. Then at her.  
  
I gritted my teeth. "Don't be rude, Holmes. If she wants to talk to you that bad..."  
  
"You can come, too." Holmes said, and dragged me to the back of the bus.   
  
"No - I - no, please - oh dear." Holmes and I plunked into the seat across the way from Marianne. I tried to smile. It didn't work.  
  
"Sherlock, dear, I've missed you," Marianne purred and pouted slightly. "You never come talk to me like you used to."  
  
"Like I used to? Marianne, you always came to talk to me."  
  
"This is all because of -" Marianne sneered at me. "Her. I would think you'd get tired of hanging around ugly old American brats like her."  
  
"Marianne, that's enough!" Holmes said sharply. "Really, I think you two could be friends if you gave it a chance."  
  
Our eyes met across the bus. And for once, Marianne and I were thinking the same thing - No. Way.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
"Hey," I stopped and pointed to the notice board. "Check this out, Holmes."  
  
He stopped beside me and we both read the flyer.  
  
GREATER LONDON YOUTH SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA, it said.  
Be a part of the grand RE-OPENING of the Caldecott Theater!  
All youth ages 12-18 are invited to audition, January 21-25. Call (786) 857-3251 for details.  
  
I turned to Holmes. "That looks really cool!"  
  
"Yes, it does. Why don't we... audition..." Holmes said softly, narrowing his eyes and squinting at the flier.  
  
"What's wrong?" I asked.  
  
"Nothing... but why does the name Caldecott Theater sound so familiar?" he mumbled.  
  
I shrugged. "I don't know. Come on, we're gonna be late for class." I scribbled the phone number for the auditions on my palm as we walked away. 


	2. Chapter Two

"You quit the fencing team?" I gasped.  
  
Holmes looked away. "Yes."  
  
"But, but you're good..." I said, then rubbed a finger along the scar on my neck. "Really good..." I whispered.   
  
"That's just what I mean. Watson - I," he choked. "I just can't. Don't you understand?"  
  
"I think I do," I said softly, and took his hand.  
  
Of course, it was just then that Marianne walked up. We had been sitting on the park bench after a walk with Rascal. It was chilly, but not freezing, and the sun was shining. A beautiful day. That is, until SHE arrived.  
  
After a sneer at me she turned to Holmes. "Is it true, Sherlock?" she wailed, almost pleadingly. "Jason told me you quit the fencing team! Is it true?"  
  
"Yes, it's true, Marianne. I'm sorry."  
  
"But Sherlock! You can't!"  
  
"Mari, I'm sorry I just..."  
  
Marianne turned mean. "You just? You just wanted to spend more time with your little slut here!"  
  
"That is enough!" Holmes said, standing. "I will not tolerate this. Go, and I never want to see you again!" There was something so commanding, so powerful in his voice that even I quailed. Marianne looked hurt and back away, but not before giving me the all-time nasty look to top all nasty looks.  
  
"Holmes," I said gently, pulling on his sleeve. "Really, Holmes, calm down."  
  
"She can't act like that. Not in front of me," he growled as he sat.  
  
"Holmes, she's not...so...bad," I lied, gritting my teeth. "You don't know what else is going on in her life. And sticks and stones and all that."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You know, the old rhyme - sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me." I said solemnly.  
  
Holmes laughed suddenly. "You - you are amazing, Watson."  
  
"I know," I said, smug.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~   
  
  
"I can't believe I'm doing this, I can't believe I'm doing this, I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered under my breath, pacing the waiting room of the Greater London Youth Symphony auditions. Holmes and I had both decided to audition, and I had never been so nervous. My hands felt damp around my flute. "I'm gonna blow it, I'm gonna blow it..."   
  
Someone giggled and I looked up. It was a small girl, the only other flautist in the waiting room. She gave me a weak smile. She looked my age, with blonde hair and a cute, turned up nose.   
  
I bit my lip and smiled back. "Hi," I said, and then extended my hand. "Sara Watson."  
  
"Victoria Anness," she said. (Author's note: Bwhahahaha Piano Ann!)  
  
"So..." I said, letting out a big breath. "Nervous?"  
  
Victoria nodded.   
  
"I really want to make it," I said, "This is a big-deal type thing. But I'm so nervous I know I'm gonna mess up."  
  
Victoria nodded again. "I know what you mean," she said quietly. Just then, the door at the far end opened. A rather large lady with a clipboard shuffled into the room.  
  
"Victoria Anness," she whined, pushing spectacles further up her bulbous nose.  
  
"Good luck," I whispered, giving Victoria a double thumbs up. Which was rather difficult while holding a flute - but she got the idea and smiled.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
Holmes met me outside. "How did you do?" he asked as we turned to walk away.  
  
"I think I did all right, actually," I said, hoisting my backpack over one shoulder. "How did you do?"  
  
Holmes shifted his violin to his other hand. "I did very well," he said, smiling.  
  
Now I grinned. "Okay, what's up?" I asked.  
  
"Nothing, nothing." But he continued smiling the whole way home.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
It was three weeks later, a Monday, that we got the results of our audition. I had walked home from school with Holmes, and we said goodbye at the corner.  
  
Ten minutes later, our doors were flung open. We were both running down the street, brandishing the same piece of paper.  
  
"Holmes!" I cried, laughing. "I made it! I made it!"  
  
"Me, too!" he shouted and met me halfway down the street. He picked me up by my waist and swung me around. I giggled then pulled him into a hug.   
  
"This is fantastic," I said, calming down and reading my letter carefully. "Let's see... I made the sixth chair, second flute."  
  
"Second flute?" Holmes' face fell a little.  
  
"Yeah, why, what chair did you make?" I asked. Before he could protest, I whipped his letter from his hands.  
  
"Concert master?!" I practically shrieked. "You're the CONCERT MASTER? Holmes, that's amazing! That's unbelievable! That is soooooo cool!" I boggled at his letter. "First violin, first chair. Unbelievable."  
  
"You're not jealous?" Holmes asked, tentatively.  
  
"Jealous? Why would I be jealous?" I handed his letter back.   
  
"I don't know," Holmes muttered. "It's just that... well..."  
  
"You're the concert master and I'm sixth chair?" I laughed. "Holmes, we both made the orchestra. We'll have a great time, regardless of what chair we're sitting in."  
  
Holmes grinned. "You're the best, Watson."  
  
"I know, I know," I said, taking his arm. "But not when it comes to math. You're coming to help." With that, I steered him towards my house. 


	3. Chapter Three

The first rehearsal was January 30th, right after school, in the Caldecott Theater. Fortunately, the theater was about fifteen minutes walk from the school.  
  
"This is it?" I asked, awed. Holmes grabbed my wrist and doubled-checked the address I had written there. In permanent marker. Oops. But oh well, I wasn't likely to forget, was I?  
  
"Yes, this is it," he said, letting my wrist drop.  
  
"It's... beautiful..." I murmured as we walked forward. A row of oversized steps led up to the towering marble columns. Once behind the columns, we found ourselves facing a huge black doorway. Etched into the door were wild roses, and I reached out a hand to stroke one.   
  
Holmes, indifferent, pushed the door open and we entered.  
  
The floor was covered in plush velvet carpet, and on either side of us a sweeping staircase led to the mezzanine and the balcony. We walked forward through another doorway and found ourselves in the theater. Rows and rows of cushioned seats were illuminated by a tiny line of footlights. The enormous stage in front of us was lit from all directions, and I could see people milling about.  
  
"This is cool!" I said appreciatively.  
  
We walked forward and starting climbing steps to the stage.  
  
"Name?" asked the nasally woman from the auditions. She began flipping through pages on her clipboard.  
  
"Sara Watson," I said.  
  
"Fifth row back, sixth seat," she whined, pointing. "Name?"  
  
"Sherlock Holmes."  
  
The woman's face came alive. "Oh, Mister Holmes! It's a pleasure!" she said, pumping his free hand. "Of course, you know where the concert master sits!"  
  
Holmes glanced back at me and I rolled my eyes. He smiled and went to the front of the stage.  
  
"Mister Holmes!" said the man at the podium. "Welcome, welcome. I am Mr. Hailey, the conductor." Holmes had his hand pumped once more. Mr. Hailey was tall, with sandy brown hair just a shade lighter than Holmes'. His blue eyes were sparkly above rather chubby cheeks. All in all, he looked like somebody's grandfather.  
  
I found my seat and shrugged out of my private school jacket. The lights made the stage hot, so I took off my blazer as well, glancing around. A boy in the front row was watching me, and when I looked his way he smiled and winked. I scowled and was about to make a very rude gesture when someone spoke.  
  
"Excuse me," said a soft, timid voice. I looked up.  
  
"Victoria!" I said, gleefully, "You made it! What chair?"  
  
"Fifth."  
  
"Excellent!" I scooted over to let her by.   
  
We began unpacking our flutes. "So, Victoria, where do you go to school?" I asked.  
  
"Please," she said, with a giggle. "Call me Vicky. And I go to Fairland High." (Author's note: Bwhahahah Piano Ann!)  
  
"I go to Hopkins," I said sliding the head joint in.  
  
"I noticed," Vicky said, indicating the green tie around my neck.  
  
"Oh, I know, isn't it hideous?" I moaned.  
  
Vicky giggled.  
  
The other flautists slowly began to arrive. Most of them were older than I. The first chair was a tall, gangly girl with black hair down to her waist. She looked about eighteen. Then came an Irish looking girl, maybe sixteen. A girl with short brown hair was next, about sixteen as well. I watched, open mouthed, as the prettiest girl I had ever seen, about my age, sat in the foruth chair. Which left Vicky and, finally, me. Last chair. Oh well.  
  
"Attention, attention," Mr. Hailey said from the front. "I'd like to welcome everyone to the first rehearsal of the Greater London Youth Symphony Orchestra!"  
  
I cheered.   
  
And I was the only one - my voice rang out and echoed into the silence. I bit my lips and felt the color rising to my cheeks. Every head swung in my direction.  
  
There was a moment of very uncomfortable silence. "Um," I said softly, "If any one needs me I'll be under a rock."   
  
Vicky started to giggle, then covered her mouth guiltily. But the bug was started. I chuckled, then snorted, and suddenly everyone was laughing all out, including Mr. Hailey. "I can see we're going to have a very interesting season," he chuckled.  
  
I grinned.   
  
But, as it turned out, I had no idea just HOW interesting... 


	4. Chapter Four

Wake up.   
  
Begin breathing.  
  
Shower.  
  
Dress.  
  
Eat.  
  
Walk to bus stop.  
  
  
My brain is not multifunctional in the morning.  
  
But by mid-morning I was waking up and excited. There was another Greater London Youth Symphony Orchestra (GLYSO, for short) that afternoon. After school, Holmes and I almost ran to the theater. Once inside I made my way to the back of the stage, saying hello to the other flautists. From their conversations, I started to learn their names. Jessica was in the first chair, then Molly, Naomi, and Rachel.   
  
The conductor clapped for attention, and we all stopped chattering. "Before we start," Mr. Hailey said, "I would like to introduce a few people to you. This is Ms. Basil, owner and operator of the Caldecott Theater." Mr. Hailey indicated a pretty young woman at his right. She had severely parted dark brown hair, which was pinned up behind her head. Her rectangular glasses and shy, pleasant smile made her look like an overgrown schoolgirl.  
  
"And this is George, our custodian," He pointed to an old man with a gray janitor's uniform on. "And finally - well, what happened..." Mr. Hailey turned around in a circle. "Where's Mr. Johnson?"  
  
"I'm right here," said a cold voice, just over my shoulder.  
  
Everyone jumped and turned and I twisted round in my seat, finding myself under the gaze of - oh, my god, for a minute I could have sworn it was the Phantom of the Opera.  
  
Mr. Johnson was wearing a black suit with one of those wide brimmed hats that shaded his eyes. He was leaning against the back of the stage, arms crossed and one foot pulled up - like some kind of fifties' gangster. I gulped. Was it my imagination, or was he watching me?  
  
Mr. Johnson peeled himself from the wall and walked forward slowly. "I am the theater manager, and I'm not here for fun. Any one of you messes up, you'll have me to answer to. No vandalism. No littering. And most of all -" okay, I wasn't imagining it this time, he was looking me straight in the face, "No snooping around. Is that clear?"   
  
Everyone murmured something along the lines of "yessir", unnerved by the dark, imposing figure of Mr. Johnson. I shivered. Mr. Johnson and George exited the auditorium, but Ms. Basil whispered something to Mr. Hailey and then left by threading through the orchestra students.  
  
But Ms. Basil is the clumsiest person I ever saw. She tipped and turned through the seats, tripping over students and stands and one very annoyed violist. "Oh!" she exclaimed, as she tripped over another stand, winding up in Molly's lap, "Oh, please excuse me," she said, straightening and leaving.  
  
Practice continued normally after that. We played through our pieces again and again, and I must admit Mr. Hailey was very particular. I though that if I had to "take it from measure 38" one more time I was going to throw my flute at him.   
  
Two long hours later, we all began packing up to leave.  
  
"What the...?" Jessica was staring into her empty flute case.  
  
"What is it?" Molly asked.  
  
Jessica bit her lip and pulled a rose from her case. It was short and wickedly thorned, and the petals were a deep, dark... midnight black. 


	5. Chapter Five

The next rehearsal was the last time any one ever saw Jessica alive.  
  
It's scary how perfectly normal that rehearsal was. We all showed up, unpacked instruments and rehearsed. Ms. Basil even watched us from the balcony. But then, at the end, Jessica looked... strange. She was paled, and she stumbled and looked out of place.  
  
  
"Jessica? What's wrong?" somebody asked.  
  
"I... don't... feel..." Jessica mumbled, her knees shaking. "So... good..."  
  
Mr. Hailey rushed over and held her upright. "C'mon, let's go get you a drink of water, huh? And someone to pick you up?" He practically carried the swooning girl off the stage.  
  
I put my flute away, worried. I watched as Mr. Hailey led Jessica away... but why was he heading away from the doors? Where was he going? I stood and tried to see, and noticed Holmes doing the same. He looked back and our eyes met.  
  
We've been through a lot, and it's us to expect the worst. At his unspoken signal I began to move forward, but then a flash of black caught my eye. Mr. Johnson, gangster hat and all, was milling around the flutes, looking up, looking down, wiping a hand across Jessica's chair...  
  
I gulped and ran to Holmes, pushing through the last stragglers. "Let's go," he said quietly.  
  
We turned and walked in the direction of Mr. Hailey and found a door off to stage right. Cautiously, biting my lip, I pushed it open.   
  
Our mouths fell open. This, I decided in an instant, was one. sick. guy.  
  
A desk in the middle of the room with a nametag told us that this was Mr. Hailey's office. But his walls were covered, and I mean literally COVERED in old play posters. And not just any posters. The Phantom of the Opera. Frankenstien. Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde. But most of all, the same poster repeated over and over again.  
  
It was a picture of the Caldecott Theater, with a big black rose in the middle. FIVE FLUTES AND A BLACK ROSE, it said. A TALE OF MYSTERY, DEATH, AND DECEPTION. And then at the bottom of the poster, in very small italic letters it said: Things are not always what they seem...  
  
"Can I help you?"  
  
Holmes and I both jumped. Mr. Hailey had emerged from a doorway on the right, and was looking from one of us to the other.   
  
"Ouuh..." I said.  
  
"We, we were just worried about... about..." Holmes looked at me.  
  
I caught on. "Jessica! She's a friend of mine and we wanted to see if she was all right."  
  
Mr. Hailey nodded his head serenely. "She's lying down on my couch back there, and she says she can drive back home when she feels a little better." Mr. Hailey paused, and squinted at us. "Those lights get awfully hot up there, don't they? I'm sure she just got a little dizzy. She'll be fine." Mr. Hailey looked at us again, as Holmes was gazing around the office.  
  
"Ah, you like my posters, do you? Yes, yes, some of my favorites." He smiled. "Five Flutes and a Black Rose. Best play we ever did..."  
  
I tipped my head to the side and frowned, quizzical.   
  
"You don't know? Ah, let me tell you!" Mr. Hailey grinned and rubbed his hands together. "A long time ago, this was a theater, not a music theater, but a real, acting theater. I was in the cast... we began a play called 'Five Flutes and a Black Rose.' It was a murder mystery about... well, about an orchestra. A crazy man was killing off the flutes, one by one. He would mark them all with a black rose, the night before he killed them. Only... while we were rehearsing the play... the flautists really, truly, died. It was frightening, some said the play had come to life, some accused the actors, others... others said it was a Phantom. Just like - " he pointed at the Phantom of the Opera. "That's why they closed down the theater. Too many rumors. To this day people still swear that the ghost hangs around, waiting for a flautist..." Mr. Hailey looked at me and grinned. I clutched my flute case with white knuckles.  
  
"Um, I think... I think we'd better go home, then, if Jess is okay..." I mumbled.  
  
"Wait, one moment," Holmes said. "Mr. Hailey, what part did you play?"  
  
"Me?" Mr. Hailey chuckled. "Why, I was the murderer, of course." 


	6. Chapter Six

"Holmes, knock it off," I said, trying to pry his fingers from my arm.  
  
He dragged me down the marble steps, shaking. "This is insane. We're both resigning. Now. And you're coming with me so quit dragging your heels."  
  
Infuriated, I stomped on his foot. "Holmes, you ninny, listen to me. We don't even know that he killed Jessica. He could be telling the truth. Maybe she got dizzy. Maybe somebody put the rose there as a joke, or to scare her off. Maybe Molly, the second flute, is jealous. And if Jess WAS killed, then there will probably be another murder. And we have to stop it! So we have to keep coming to practice."  
  
"Watson, you are the most stubborn, most irritating, most infuriating person I have ever met. But you are also my best friend and I'm not going to lose you."  
  
I rolled my eyes. "Holmes, enough. The murderer supposedly marks each flautist with a rose the night before. So we'd have warning. I promise that if I get a black rose, I won't go to practice. Okay?"  
  
Holmes narrowed his eyes and glared at me for a long, long time. "Fine," he said at last, and let go of my arm.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
At the next rehearsal, I kept my eyes and ears absolutely peeled. I could see George, the janitor, in the background vacuuming. Ms. Basil was sitting in the balcony, watching rehearsal - but she looked awfully stiff and uncomfortable, like she had to stay in the same place the whole time.  
  
Mr. Hailey was up front, talking to the principal cellist about "measure 38". Again.  
  
But Jessica wasn't there, and neither was Molly. Where was Molly? And the chandelier - I glanced up at the huge light fixture above the stage. There was something different about the chandelier, but I couldn't put my finger on it...  
  
"Sara?" somebody asked, softly.  
  
"Wha - huh? What?" I said, turning.  
  
"Are you okay?" Vicky asked.   
  
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," I said quickly, and went back to scanning the auditorium. And there was Molly!  
  
She was standing at the back of the theater, shying away from... oh, no, Mr. Johnson. He said something and grabbed her arm. I felt my heart beating in my mouth, and I stood. Molly broke away from his grip, and ran down the aisle to the stage, wiping tears from her eyes and taking shuddering, gasping breaths.  
  
"Molly?" Naomi, the third chair said. "Are you all right?"  
  
Molly gulped and nodded, putting her flute together with shaking hands. She closed the case and put it under her chair as Mr. Hailey banged on his stand for attention.   
  
Everything during rehearsal was normal. We played through our five pieces, and I must admit it was fun. Everyone in this orchestra was really good, and we sounded phenomenal. But when rehearsal ended and I began to pack up my flute, I kept half an eye on the flute section.  
  
Molly opened her flute case and gasped. I turned to her, feeling cold all over.  
  
Trembling, she held up a black rose.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
"Okay, Holmes, this is NOT FUN." I said, as we hustled away from the theater. "According to tradition, Molly will be killed at the next rehearsal. What are we going to do? And why isn't anyone else freaking out?"  
  
Holmes frowned. "Well, it seems to me that not everyone knows about that old play."  
  
"And that old weirdo," I said, meaning Mr. Hailey.  
  
"He's not the only one who's weird," Holmes said quietly. "You know George, the janitor? I heard him talking to himself the other day. He was saying how much he hated his job and the theater. Something like he would do anything to close it down again."  
  
"You can't be serious!" I gasped.  
  
"I am."  
  
My head was spinning. "This just keeps getting worse and worse. Maybe we should tell somebody..."  
  
"About what?" Holmes snapped. "What evidence do we have? Two freaked out teenagers and a black rose?"  
  
I bit my lip. "You're right. Let's just keep an extra good eye on Molly tomorrow."  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Rehearsal that next day was terrifying. I sat down, ignored Vicky's polite hello, and began unpacking my flute, every nerve in my body singing. The chandelier caught my eye again. It looked ... different...  
  
Shaking my head, I watched with eagle eyes for Molly - and then saw her at the back of the theater. Mr. Johnson was walking next to her, whispering furiously. Molly was trying to wave him off or get ahead, but he followed her almost up to the steps.  
  
Shivering, Molly sat down and unpacked her flute. Mr. Hailey banged on the stand for attention. "Please, everyone," he said, "Let's take it from measure 38."  
  
We all groaned but raised our instruments obediently.  
  
A minute later I heard footsteps behind me and I shifted around in my chair. Mr. Johnson was leaning against the back wall, his eyes locked on Molly. Then he glanced at me.  
  
I felt a hot rush of anger.  
  
LEAVE HER ALONE! I mouthed.  
  
Mr. Johnson glared at me, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a swiss army knife. He flicked the blade open, and dug an imaginary speck of dirt from under his thumbnail. Still watching me and smiling nonchalantly, he closed the knife and put it back in his pocket.  
  
I got the message.  
  
I turned around, shaking with fear. Struck with sudden inspiration, I rummaged around in my backpack for my powder case. Very quietly, I flicked it open and put it on my stand.   
  
Perfect! In the little make-up mirror, I had a good view of Mr. Johnson behind us. Throughout the entire rehearsal, I kept an eye on him, only half-playing through the pieces. He didn't move, except to look up or to the right and left.   
  
Rehearsal ended, and I chanced a glance at Molly. Just like Jessica had been, she looked pale.  
  
"Molly?" Naomi asked. "Molly? Oh, my god, Molly!"  
  
Molly slumped over in her chair, eyelids half closed. Mr. Johnson rushed forward and picked her up.  
  
NO! My brain was screaming. NO! NO NO NO NO! I looked at Holmes. He put his violin down and waited. Trying to be as indiscreet as I could, I followed as Mr. Johnson carried Molly off the stage. When I got to the front and Holmes, we waited, watching where he was taking her - to the back of the theater. We followed, quietly.  
  
But when we got to the back, they were gone. Totally gone.  
  
Holmes rushed and opened the door to outside, and we both peered both ways down the street. Totally gone.  
  
"I think you had better go get your things," Mr. Johnson said from behind us, and we both jumped. Well, actually, Holmes jumped I had about a full body muscle spasm with assorted squeals.  
  
Terrified, we slid away from him and ran back into the theater.  
  
"Holmes," I said, panting. "This is NOT FUN." 


	7. Chapter Seven

***A black rose. No, not the black rose. It pricked my finger I felt the blood dripping down my hand...***  
  
I sat bolt upright, clutching and my bedclothes and trying not to wake my parents. The tears ran down my face and I shivered violently. I looked at the clock - 4:30 am. I glanced over at my walkie talkie, and flicked it on.  
  
"Holmes?" I said, very softly.  
  
A few seconds later he answered, sleepily. "Watson? What's wrong?"  
  
"I - I - can't sleep, I just..." I broke down into tears.  
  
"Do you want me to come over?" he asked, kindly.  
  
I couldn't answer, so I nodded. Which was really stupid because he couldn't see me, yet some how he knew.  
  
"I'll be right over," he said, and the walkie went dead.  
  
I crawled out of bed, found some clothing, and then padded downstairs. When I opened the door he was all ready there, waiting.  
  
He pulled me into a tight hug and I calmed, suddenly.   
  
"Shh," he whispered. "You're okay. I promise you're okay. I won't let anything happen, understand?"  
  
I nodded.  
  
"Watson," Holmes said over the top of my head. "I think it's time we did some investigating."  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
At the next rehearsal, I said hello to Vicky, unpacked my flute, and glanced at the ceiling. That darn chandelier! It looked... closer, somehow.   
  
A hand waved in front of my face and I snapped back to reality.  
  
"Sara, what's wrong?" Vicky asked.  
  
"Nothing, nothing," I said. "I'm just tired, you know?"  
  
Vicky nodded, but looked uncertain. She kept sneaking glances at me while she unpacked.  
  
I sighed and turned to our music stand. I grasped the edges to raise it a bit... and POP! the whole top came off. I stared at the two pieces in dismay, then tried to hastily jam them back together. It wouldn't work.  
  
"Urgh!" I said, and tried the rapid fire assault method - BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!  
  
Vicky laughed and took the top from my hands and slid it gently back into place. Then she pulled on the bottom of the stand and raised it slowly.  
  
"Thanks," I said, embarrassed, and went back to scanning the auditorium.  
  
Mr. Hailey banged on his stand for attention. "Your ears, please, everyone. I've just received resignation from our two top flutes, so I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate Naomi, our new principal flute. And now, please take out our first piece." With that, rehearsal began. But it hard to concentrate when all I could think about were black roses...  
  
"No, no, no," Mr. Hailey said, "Let's take it from measure 38."   
  
I groaned and glanced at the balcony. Ms. Basil, as usual, was sitting there watching, but there was something strange about her, too...  
  
I'm not a very religious person, but when rehearsal ended I said a silent prayer and turned to Naomi, the next in line.  
  
She opened her flute case, paled, and with a trembling hand held up the third black rose.  
  
Three people gulped. Rachel, fourth chair, Vicky, fifth chair, and me, sixth chair. Our eyes met and we all took a deep breath. Naomi, shaking, packed her things up quickly and left.  
  
Holmes and I stayed behind as the theater slowly emptied. When everyone was gone he turned to me.  
  
"Now, I've been thinking about this," he said, "And I decided that... Watson? Watson, are you feeling well?"  
  
"Of course, Holmes," I snapped, "Time of my life."  
  
"Shush!" he said, and put the back of his hand to my forehead. "You're feverish."  
  
"Knock it off," I said, pushing his hand away. "Let's do this. You were thinking..." I prompted him.  
  
"Well," Holmes said, "You said that you were watching the back, and there weren't any people there except Mr. J, who stayed in one spot. And anyone coming from the front or the sides would have to go through the orchestra students. So, assuming these attacks are not from someone in the orchestra, that leaves..."  
  
I brightened. "From above!"   
  
"Right. Get your walkie talkie."   
  
I dug it out of my backpack and switched it on.   
  
"Good," Holmes murmured, looking skyward and turning in a circle. "There's a staircase over there. I'm betting it leads to an attic above the stage. I want you to go up there and then follow my instructions."  
  
"Sure thing," I said, and made way for the stairs. They were old and rickety, and the wood moaned beneath my feet. After two creepy flights, I found myself facing an old wooden door. I pushed it open and glanced around.  
  
The attic was dark and very spooky. Furniture, draped with cloth and the dust of years loomed around me. Odd boxes, funny shapes, old stage props leered in my face and I shivered.  
  
"Okay, Holmes," I said into my walkie talkie. "I'm here, by the door to the attic. About halfway along the wall."  
  
"Good." he said. "Take... fifteen steps."  
  
"One, two, three, four," I muttered, pacing along. "Fourteen, fifteen. Okay, I'm good."  
  
"Watson, you should be directly above the first flute chair. Jump."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Jump, so I can tell where you are by the sound."  
  
"Whatever," I said, and began to jump up and down. Thump. Thump. Thump. THUMPTHUMPTHUMP!!...  
  
With a sickening crash, the floor gave way beneath me. I screamed and scrambled through the empty air, trying to find something to hold on too...  
  
My fingers touched wood, and I grabbed tight. I slipped, then held. I swung gently back and forth, my eyes closed as tight as I could and taking shaking breaths. Slowly, fearfully, I opened my eyes.  
  
Holmes, his face right at the level of my shoes, looked strange... like he was trying not to laugh!  
  
"Oh, put a sock in it," I said, trying to climb back through the hole.  
  
"Watson," Holmes said, laughing. "I do believe you've found a trap door."  
  
"Do tell!" I said, treading air.  
  
"I just hope you're not ticklish," Holmes teased, reach out a foot to my ankle. I frowned and kicked out at him, which only caused me to swing wildly.  
  
Taking a deep breath and timing it just right, I pulled myself up through the hole and flopped into the attic above. I crawled back around, put my head back down the hole and stuck my tongue out to Holmes. He laughed and shooed me back up. I closed the trap door behind me, and latched it into place.  
  
"Okay, now what?" I said into my walkie, which I had (thankfully) dropped next to the trap door.  
  
"Walk along the line of the flute chairs. Look at the floorboards for more trap doors."  
  
I did as he told me, pacing along the wooden attic. I came upon a wooden box draped with cloth and I shoved it aside.  
  
"Watson! Watson!" Holmes' voice was excited. "What did you just do?"  
  
"I.. um... I guess I just pushed this box to the side... why?"  
  
"Do it again! Push it again!"  
  
He's lost his nut, I thought, but I gave the box another shove.  
  
"Haha!" Holmes was ecstatic. "Whenever you push that box, the chandelier moves. Push it to your right."  
  
I did.  
  
"That's it, that's it! It moved to the right!" Holmes yelled.  
  
I whipped the cover off of the box. It was a plain wooden crate but when I lifted the crate, I gasped. It was a round, short column of a black metal, and I reached out a hand to stroke it.  
  
The silver bracelet around my wrist was drawn to the black metal, and stuck there with a tiny clink!  
  
I tried to pull my wrist away, but the bracelet held firm. It's a magnet! I realized. I set the walkie down and grasped my wrist. With a gigantic heave, I managed to free myself from the magnet. Holmes heard me topple over from below.  
  
"Watson?"  
  
"It's a magnet, Holmes!" I said, "A magnet!"  
  
"Yes! Now we're getting somewhere! I'm coming up now!"  
  
I rolled my eyes. Holmes was so weird. One second he wants to be below, then above. Oh well.  
  
Holmes burst through the door, grinning. "We're really getting somewhere," he repeated, and began to examine the attic.  
  
I strolled around nonchalantly. On the far wall from the magnet was a stack of crates with a cloth cover that didn't look quite so dusty...  
  
Feeling clever, I whipped it off and found myself staring at a small, red button.  
  
Don't people ever learn anything? What's the number one rule in ANY move, TV show, etc.? Don't push the red button.   
  
But what did Pandora do? She opened the box.  
  
What did Eve do? She ate the apple.  
  
What did I do? I pushed the button.  
  
  
On a matching set of crates on the opposite me, something raised up from beneath the sheet. A metallic click! filled the air.  
  
"Watson get down!" Holmes yelled, lunging for me. He slammed me to the ground, and not a moment too soon. With a sinister *whiz* something shot above our heads.  
  
We lay there, face down on the floor, for about a minute.  
  
Finally, I ventured to speak. "Holmes," I said, my words slurred as my cheek was pressed to the ground. "I fink you can get off me dow." He did, and we both stood in amazement. Where was the bullet? Or for that matter, the dart?  
  
"Watson, let's get out of here," Holmes said, and I agreed. We hurried down the stairs as fast as we could. But not so fast that Holmes didn't notice the clue that saved my life...  
  
Stuck in a broken bit of the wall was some tan colored wax and a few strands of dark brown hair. Holmes pulled it from the splintered wood. "Isn't this odd?" he said, and showed it to me.  
  
"Yes, yes, very odd now can we GO?"  
  
Holmes nodded and pocketed the wax and hair.   
  
We clambered down the last of the stairs only to come face to face with our good friend Mr. Johnson. I paled but tried to look normal. Huh. Yeah right.  
  
"I would think..." Mr. Johnson said slowly, softly. "That if you two knew what was good for you, you would keep your noses out of other people's business." He turned to Holmes. "Mr. Holmes, you do care for your companion here, don't you? You wouldn't want anything to happen to her, would you?"  
  
I felt Holmes tense beside me. Mr. Johnson chuckled. "I thought so. Stay away, Mr. Holmes, do you hear me? Stay very far away." 


	8. Chapter Eight

Author's note: Thanks for being patient with my updates, and I apologize in advance to Piano Ann. Please don't hurt me!!!!  
  
Ahem. Oh, one other thing, Rainbow - I didn't know there was actually a play called "Five Flutes and a Black Rose". If you're serious, that is truly spooky!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Holmes, what are you doing? Hadn't we better get over to rehearsal?" I tapped my foot impatiently, leaning against the doorframe of the chemistry lab.  
  
"Watson, come here," Holmes said, without looking up from the microscope. "This is the hair we found in the wall yesterday. Look."  
  
Holmes sat back up and I leaned forward, squinting into the eyepiece. After a minute I gasped. "That's not real hair - for one thing, there aren't any split ends and you can't see through the middle, which means..."  
  
"There's no shaft in the middle. Right." Holmes removed the slide. "And there goes any proof we had. Fake hair at a theater? Of course there would be fake hair at a theater. How stupid. And when put with the wax, I've been chasing a dummy." Holmes sighed. "Let's go."  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
"Hey, Vicky," I said, and went to raise the music stand. The top popped out in my hand again. With an annoyed groan I jammed it back again and then raised it carefully.   
  
Putting my flute together, I tried to locate all the suspects. Mr. Hailey was in plain sight on his podium, shuffling through papers. Mr. Johnson was ... with a suspicious shiver I found my makeup case and opened it. Yup, Mr. Johnson was standing behind the flutes. George was polishing the woodwork in the back.  
  
Hm. Miss Basil was in the balcony again, so that ruled her out. She didn't even move the entire rehearsal.   
  
As we started to play, I kept looking around. Two girls gone, already. Two murders, and it was all my fault. If I had only figured this out, they would still be alive. All... my... fault...  
  
I shook my head and tried to stay awake. I was so tired, I had been losing sleep over this!  
  
I kept my eyes of Naomi the entire time. No one approached her. No trap door opened. But right at the end of rehearsal, she paled and stammered, putting her flute away with trembling hands. Mr. Johnson helped her off the stage, despite my stammering protests.   
  
Then Rachel gave a soft scream.  
  
We all jumped and turned, to find her holding up the fourth black rose.   
  
  
"Holmes!" I scrambled to him, hissing furiously. "We have got to solve this now!" I grabbed his arm. "After Rachel is Vicky! WE HAVE GOT TO STOP THIS! Have you talk to Myron?"  
  
Holmes frowned at the mention of his brother. "He won't listen to me! Not one bit! But I've been thinking again. Wouldn't there also be rooms underneath the stage? Let's look, today."  
  
I nodded and put my things together. We hid in the wings of the stage until everyone had left. Or, at least, we thought everyone had left.   
  
"Holmes, look here," I said, pointing. "There's a stair case, hidden in the shadows." Quietly, we climbed down the stairs. There wasn't any light, and it was dusty and spooky, just like the attic. We hadn't taken five steps before Holmes stopped, listening.   
  
"Do you hear that?" he whispered.   
  
I licked my lips and listened closely. It sounded like a piano, and singing. We walked down the passage way at the end of the stairs, listening. There was a door at the far end, and a thin line of light struggled through the outline. We crept closer, and I could hear the words to the song.  
  
"...Our strange duet," the voice sang. "My power over you, grows stronger yet..."  
  
I recognized that song. I tugged on Holmes' sleeve. "The Phantom of the Opera," I mouthed, and he nodded. Holmes walked up to the door and put his hand on the handle. The music stopped, abruptly. Somebody laughed softly, and footsteps approached the door. Holmes pulled me close, and we hid behind the door as it opened. Unfortunately, the door opened all the way and squished us both against the wall. I was certain my nose was now plastered against my cheeks.   
  
The person who had opened it didn't notice us as she walked down the hallway. I gasped as I recognized her, and Holmes elbowed me sharply. We waited until she had gone, then tumbled from behind the door.  
  
"What on earth," I whispered. "Was Vicky DOING?"  
  
  
  
  
(Authors note: 3...2...1... BWHAHAHAHAHAHA, Piano Ann!)  
  
  
  
  
We both stood, brushing dust from our clothing. Holmes entered the room where Vicky had been, and I followed him. It was a dusty, icky old room with coarse beige carpeting. One the right, there was a faded orange and red striped coach, stained with paint and several suspicious looking liquids. On the left was a splintery wooden cabinet, and straight in front was an old, black, upright piano. Holmes paced around the room, briskly.  
  
"She was playing the piano, you can see some of the keys aren't dusty, and she had sheet music, again seen in the dust. She was here for a while," Holmes said, pressing his hand against the bench, "The seat's warm."  
  
"She also was at the cabinet," I said, pointing to some footprints and handprints on the dust. "Feminine hand prints, feminine foot prints."  
  
Holmes went to the cabinet and pried it open. With a gasp, we both stepped back.  
  
Out tumbled a bundle of black roses, and several sheets of paper.  
  
I gulped and backed away, but Holmes carefully picked up the roses and put them back in the cabinet. Then he held the paper up to the light. He whistled softly. "These are the original deeds to the theater. Apparently, it's been in Miss Basil's family for generations."  
  
"Holmes, let's go," I said, trembling. It can't be Vicky, I thought. It can't!  
  
Holmes bundled up the papers and stuck them in his jacket. We turned to leave but them he stopped, abruptly, and glared at the floor.  
  
"Holmes?"  
  
"Odd," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Very odd. Did she change shoes while she was in here? One set of her footprints is an inch shorter than the other."  
  
"Holmes! Let's go!"  
  
He nodded and we hurried away. I felt cold suddenly, and glanced behind me. I didn't see anything, but I could feel a pair of eyes on our backs... 


	9. Chapter Nine

I set the mug of steaming hot chocolate in front of Holmes, but he didn't even glance up. I sighed, sat, and stirred my own mug slowly.  
  
"Read these." Holmes' hand shot out, and he handed me two or three of the sheets we had found below the stage. I took them with another sigh, pushed my glasses a little further up my nose (yeah, I still wear my glasses at home), and began to read.  
  
"If, on any occasion, property damages exceed..." I groaned inwardly but kept reading. Finally my eye fell on something interesting. "If, on any occasion, the deaths of five or more employees of the Caldecott Theater brings negative publicity, the following people may collect monetary reimbursement: the current owner, the theater manager, and the resident conductor."  
  
"Holmes!" I cried. "This is it! Read, read right here!" He did and growled slightly, which surprised me.  
  
"Well, now we have a motive, but for multiple people. For all we know, they could be working together. And we still don't know how they're pulling this off."  
  
"And Holmes, there's been no report of the bodies."  
  
He nodded. "You're right."  
  
I fumbled with a cup of hot chocolate that tasted like lead. "Holmes, this is NOT FUN."  
  
"I believe you've already established that fact," he snapped.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
Back at rehearsal.   
  
Every nerve ringing, I distractedly raised the music stand a bit. The top popped again, but I was good at getting it put back together.  
  
I stared at Vicky. My sweet, smiling friend responsible for all this? No, way.   
  
Mr. Johnson was standing behind us. Mr. Hailey was up front. George was vacuuming, again. Ms. Basil was in the balcony, again. And this was getting scary. Again.  
  
As we took the music from "measure 38" (again) I heard it. A soft, breath of air and an almost inaudible *whiz!*. But the orchestra started playing and I convinced myself I was imagining things.  
  
Rehearsal ended, and Rachel groaned. She was pale and she staggered off the stage.  
  
My heart was beating in my mouth and I turned to Vicky. "What are you doing?" I snapped, "That's MY flute case."  
  
"Oh, um, yeah, sorry." She handed the unopened case to me. With a determined sigh, Vicky opened her own case, then smiled. She looked incredibly relieved as she packed her flute up. No sign of a black rose!  
  
I felt relieved too. At last, this was over. Holmes, already packed up, hurried back to me.  
  
"Well?" he said.  
  
"No black rose!" I whispered gleefully and pressed my cheek against my flute. I leaned back and sighed.   
  
"Don't you realize what that means?" he hissed.   
  
"No." I said, closing my eyes. Gad, I didn't feel too good.  
  
"She's the one!"  
  
"Vicky?" My eyes snapped open. "Oh, no WAY!"  
  
"She's the only one who hasn't gotten a rose yet. And now she's first flute, isn't she?"  
  
"Holmes, she's not the kind of person who would DO something like that."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, really!" I stood, my head pounding. Whoa, hold on, I stood up too quickly. Little black dots fizzed in front of my eyes and I took a deep breath, trying to stay upright. "She's not the one, Holmes."  
  
I turned and slammed my flute case on my chair, and flicked it open.  
  
My hands began to tremble and my throat went dry. I could feel the blood pounding through my veins.  
  
  
A black rose.  
  
  
The ground tipped violently beneath my feet, and then everything went black. 


	10. Chapter Ten

I opened my eyes, then shut them quickly against the glare. I felt dizzy and I struggled to sit up.  
  
"Sh, Watson, you fainted. Lie still for a moment."  
  
"No!" I sat up. "What is this? Open season on Watson?" I started to cry, hysterical. "Am I that offensive that everyone wants to kill me? You, Mr. Donnelley, now this freak! And it's my fault, I can't! We've got to stop, no, no they're GOING TO KILL M-"  
  
SMACK! I clasped a hand to my ringing cheek and calmed. I took a deep breath.  
  
"Terribly sorry. I won't do it again," Holmes said, gathering up our things, and putting the black rose in his backpack.   
  
I shuddered. "No," I whimpered. "I needed that."  
  
"Think you can make it home?" He put his arm around me and helped me stand. I nodded and we stumbled down off the stage.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
At my door Holmes handed me my backpack and my flute. "Do NOT leave the house without me," he instructed. I scowled but agreed.   
  
"Hun? What's wrong?" Mom called as I stomped up the stairs.  
  
Oh, well, let's see. I'm sick as a dog, just fainted in front of my best friend, was smacked round the head by aforesaid best friend, I am indirectly responsible for the deaths of four girls and I'm probably going to be murdered tomorrow.  
  
"Nothing!" I called back. I went to my room and dumped my stuff. I began to pace - it was five o'clock.  
  
Seven hours later, I was still pacing. My mother and father had already gone to bed, but I kept thinking, thinking. Who was it? Who was killing these girls, and how? And was I going to be the next victim?  
  
"Watson!" The walkie talkie on the dresser cackled. "Come downstairs and let me in."  
  
I sighed relief and crept down the stairs. Lucky my parents are such sound sleepers. I opened the door silently and ushered Holmes in. We tiptoed into the kitchen and flicked a light on.  
  
I sat at the table and pulled out a pad of paper I had been working on. "Here, Holmes, look at this."  
  
SUSPECTS, the paper said.  
  
Miss Basil  
Motive - insurance  
  
Mr. Johnson  
Motive - insurance  
  
Mr. Hailey  
Motive - insurance, twisted mind revenge for the play (?)  
  
George  
Motive - hates the theater  
  
Vicky  
Motive - first chair   
  
  
  
Holmes read it quickly and then busied himself pouring sodas for each of us.   
  
"Now Holmes," I said at his back. "I think we can cross of Vicky."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"She's too nice! She's my friend! I'm certain of it!"  
  
"Fine, cross her off if it makes you feel better."   
  
I did, gleefully. "Next, Miss Basil can't be the one. She's always in the balcony, which is way too far away."  
  
Holmes nodded, and I crossed her off, too. "And finally, George," I said. "I know you heard him muttering, but he's always in the background, vacuuming or dusting or something like that."  
  
"Yes, so who does that leave us with?" Holmes came and set the glass of soda in front of me. I took a grateful swig - my throat was still dry and my head hurt.  
  
"Mr. Hailey and Mr. Johnson."  
  
"And Vicky."  
  
"You have got it in for the girl!" I said, as loudly as I dared.  
  
"Think about it," Holmes leaned forward. "She was in the room below the stage. She has a motive - she wants to be first chair. And wasn't she the one who was messing with your case today?"  
  
"She was - sh-she did!" I moaned. I finished my soda, pushed back the chair from the kitchen table, and started pacing again. "Listen, Holmes, I know I got the rose but we have to go tomorrow. If I don't show the murderer will either come looking for me or kill someone else, right?"  
  
"Right..." Holmes admitted slowly, standing.  
  
"And I know how to take care of myself. I'm much more careful now, I swear. Holmes, you've got to let me go! We have GOT to catch who ever it is!" I shook my head, feeling sluggish all of a sudden.  
  
Holmes caught me by the arm and put a hand to my forehead. "You're feverish again."  
  
"I... I don't care." Why was the room going fuzzy?  
  
"C'mon, you need to get some sleep."  
  
"Sleep! I... can't sleep... I must figure this ... out..." I leaned against the kitchen wall and struggled to stay awake.   
  
Holmes picked me up easily, smiling slightly. "Goodnight, Watson."  
  
"You... good for nothing... stupid..." I muttered, as I fell fast, fast asleep.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
The sunlight in my room woke me. I jumped up. I was late for school! Why hadn't I set my alarm? I - oh, right, it's Saturday. Today was our last rehearsal before the concert.  
  
Rehearsal! Caldecott Theater! The black rose! Bang - everything that happened yesterday came back and made my head ache.  
  
I tossed the covers aside and sat up. I was still in my clothes from yesterday, but I smiled and wiggled my toes. He had taken off my shoes! How cute... I sighed and then shook my head. Which only made my headache worse.   
  
I put a hand to my forehead and then drew it back, surprised. Holmes had tied a note around my wrist.  
  
"Watson," it said in Holmes' tidy scrawl, "You are not to leave this house until I come to get you, is that clear? Don't scowl at me, it's for your own good." I scowled anyway, ripped the note off, and went to get dressed.  
  
  
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
  
  
I was halfway through a bowl of Cheerios when Holmes arrived. Mom let him in and he sat across the table from me, looking wary.  
  
I gave him my worst double-barreled glare for putting me to bed... and then remembered the shoes. I reduced my glare to mild annoyance and finished my Cheerios in silence.   
  
"The rehearsal's at 10:30," Mom said, bustling through the kitchen. "You'd better get a move on."  
  
"Yeah, okay, bye Mom... I ... I love you!" I said, giving her a hug. I grabbed my flute before she could say anything and headed out the door.  
  
Holmes followed, his violin case in hand. We walked in silence. I knew Holmes was deep in thought but I was still prickly about last night.  
  
"Holmes, you should've let me stay up, I could've helped y-"  
  
"Quiet!" He sounded on the edge. "Can't you see I'm trying to THINK?"  
  
I shut up. We were finally at the steps of the Caldecott, and I was shaking again. We walked in, Holmes' eyes darting everywhere. I found my seat at the back of the stage and edged away from Vicky. She looked surprised, but I stayed where I was.  
  
Halfway through the rehearsal, I heard something. A very, very soft metallic *click!*  
  
Headache or no, my brain began to work in high gear, and suddenly all the pieces fit together. The moving chandelier - the remote controlled gun in the attic - the soft swish of air - the insurance papers - but most importantly, the hair and the wax. In a nano-second, I knew exactly who the murderer was - and exactly how I was going to be killed.  
  
I dropped my flute and made a desperate snatch at the music stand. The top came loose in my hands and I whipped it above my head. And not a second to soon - with a sickening *thawng!* something hit the metal. I gulped and looked up.  
  
The poisoned needle, clear and deadly, had gone all the way through the metal and the point was aimed straight at my head. I whimpered and then tossed the metal aside.  
  
"Holmes!" I screamed, standing. "The attic! Vicky, get out of here! Get out!" Vicky, her eyes wide, stumbled away.  
  
Mr. Johnson made a grab for my arm, but I jumped over the back of the chairs and raced for the stairwell to the attic. Holmes, fighting his way through the astonished orchestra students, was right behind me. As we began to stomp up the stairs, I could have sworn I heard Mr. Hailey say, "Well! Let's take it from measure 38, then, shall we?" At any rate, the orchestra started to play again.   
  
Panting, we thundered up the stairs, Mr. Johnson close at our heels. "Holmes!" he yelled, "Stop!" Mr. Johnson leapt and grabbed Holmes around the ankles. They tumbled downwards, yelling.   
  
"Watson! Go! Go!" Holmes screamed, wrestling with the bigger man.  
  
I turned and clambered up the rest of the stairs. In a fit of heroics I kicked the door open and leapt into the attic, my hands balled into fists. "I know you're here," I snarled, taking a step into the attic. "I know you're here, and I know how you killed them. You put that gun in the chandelier, didn't you? And then you hid up here and killed them with poison. And you're still here. You can come out now," I snarled, panting. "You can come out now, Miss Basil!"  
  
  
  
  
  
The attic was silent and I took another step in. "You made a wax dummy of yourself and put it in the balcony, so you'd always have an alibi! And you killed four innocent girls so you could collect insurance money, you monster! One thing, though, Miss Basil," I growled. "How DID you get the roses in the flute cases?"  
  
"I guess you'll never know," Mrs. Basil said, stepping from behind the door and shutting it. She cocked the gun in her hand and walked forward slowly. You know, I hadn't counted on her having a gun. Her hair was pulled up again, but a few wisps escaped and curled around her square glasses. Her eyes were wild and she was slightly out of breath.  
  
"Aren't you a clever little girl," Miss Basil purred, smiling. "That's why I chose you instead of Vicky. You were too clever for the dart, hm? But I doubt you'll be to clever for a bullet!"  
  
BAM! The door was flung open again, and Mr. Johnson and Holmes entered, standing side by side. Mr. Johnson had his own gun, but Miss Basil simply smiled again and continued walking forward to me. She put the barrel against my head. "You two gentlemen," she said. "Will leave quietly, or else..."  
  
I glanced down at the floor and realized where I was standing. On sudden inspiration, I kicked the latch on the trapdoor and plunged downwards. I grabbed the edge of the attic and screamed as I heard a gun shot above me, a gun shot that narrowly missed my head.  
  
The orchestra students slowly stopped playing, staring at me. A trombone held one last note, going slowly flatter and flatter.  
  
Three more gunshots rang out, and then a yell. I heaved myself back into the attic and lunged at Miss Basil. We fell, and I knocked the gun out of her hand. She slammed me backwards and put her hands around my throat, choking me...  
  
Crack! Mr. Johnson hit Miss Basil with the but of his gun and she collapsed against me. He hauled her off and pulled handcuffs from his jacket. "Miss Basil," he said solemnly, "You are being arrested for murder. Anything you say can and will be used against you in..."  
  
Someone slammed into me and I thought I was being attacked again. I stiffened, but it was only Holmes. "You're... you're bleeding," I said, running a finger across his cheek where he was cut. Holmes wiped the blood away.   
  
"It's nothing," he said, sounding angry. "Don't you ever do that to me again!" Holmes shook my shoulders, and then kissed me firmly. "When I saw you go through the floor, I thought I - I thought..." he kissed me again, and again. I put my arms around his neck.  
  
Mr. Johnson coughed, and we pulled back, embarrassed. Holmes grinned. "Watson, may I introduce..."  
  
Mr. Johnson swept off his hat, smiling, "Mr. Peterson, of Scotland Yard."  
  
"I remember you!" I gasped, standing with Holmes. "You were one of the detectives that we - "  
  
"Led on a wild goose chase, yes, I remember, too." Mr. Peterson pulled Miss Basil to her feet.  
  
"It wasn't a wild goose cha-" I started to say, but Holmes stamped on my foot. "Whatever." I muttered.  
  
"That's why I was always trying to keep you two away," Mr. Peterson said. "I knew you'd want to investigate what was going on here, but it was much too dangerous. I kept trying to scare you away, but then..." Mr. Peterson grinned at me. "You don't scare easy, do you?"  
  
I shook my head, chuckling.  
  
"Good day then," Mr. Peterson tipped his hat and dragged a growling Miss Basil down the stairs.  
  
I looked at Holmes, who smiled and took my hand. "You figured it out," he said, impressed.  
  
  
I grinned. "It was elementary, my dear Holmes." 


	11. Chapter Eleven

"Close your eyes."  
  
I rolled them first and then closed them with a sigh. "What now, Holmes?"  
  
"Hold out your hands."  
  
I obeyed, and felt something cold and thin dropped into them. "My flute!" I cried, opening my eyes again.   
  
It must have been three weeks after Miss Basil had been arrested.Everything at the theater had been cleaned up. I explained to Vicky what had happened, and even that we had suspected her! She laughed a little about that, and said that she just liked to play the piano and sing, which was normal enough. She also told me that she wanted to buy a new flute, and she wanted to see what kind I had - that was why she had picked up my case.  
  
Unfortunately, neither Holmes nor I were present for the concert at the Theater. We had both been bedridden for a week - I managed to pass my head cold to Holmes. He deserved it, I told him, smirking. That's what you get for kissing me.  
  
But now we were sitting on the couch in Holmes' living room, babysitting. Colleen was already in bed, though, and we didn't expect his parents back for hours.  
  
I ran my fingers down my flute. "Oh, Holmes, you saved it! It's not even dented!" I kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you! Thank you so much!"  
  
Holmes chuckled and then leaned in for another kiss.  
  
"Boo-boo?" Somebody called. We straightened hurridly.  
  
"What is it, Colleen?" Holmes asked the top of the stairs. Colleen began thumping down the steps, dragging her blanket and sucking on her thumb. Rascal looked up from his doggie bed and thumped his tail.  
  
"Boo-boo," Colleen said, "I wanna drink of water."  
  
I turned to Holmes. "Boo-boo?" I asked, barely supressing a snort. Holmes sighed and waved an annoyed hand in my face. "Boo-boo!" I began to cry with laughter.  
  
Now Holmes rolled his eyes and took his little sister's hand. "C'mon, I'll get you a drink of water."  
  
I waited at the bottom of the stairs until Holmes came back.  
  
"Don't!" Holmes said, pointing an accusatory finger in my face. "Say! It!"  
  
"Okay," I said, smirking and looking at the floor. "Whatever you say, Boo-boo."  
  
Holmes groaned and started to walk back to the living room when we heard fists pounding on the door.  
  
"Sherlock!" someone was screaming. "Sherlock Holmes, you've got to help me!"  
  
Holmes started and then opened the door. He was practically bowled over by a sobbing Marianne. "Sherlock!" she screamed, clutching at his arms, "Help me, help me, please! My father... my father!" With a groan, she fell against him, unconscious.  
  
Holmes and I exchanged one astonished glance before we dragged her to the couch.   
  
I had thought our troubles were finally over, but when your best friend is Sherlock Holmes, the next adventure is right around the corner.  
  
  
  
THE END. 


End file.
